


Hiding

by ReginaDiCuoriForti



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After Reichenbach, After the Fall, M/M, No Mary Morstan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9134452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReginaDiCuoriForti/pseuds/ReginaDiCuoriForti
Summary: It takes a hot summer day for John to notice it. That Sherlock had changed in the two years he'd been away. At first, John is simply curious, wanting to document all the ways his flatmate was new. But then, it was different. Then, it was dangerous.





	

It begins with a hot summer day. It’s the kind of day that would usually have Sherlock moaning and splayed out on the couch in his skivvies if even those. John comes home from a day at the surgery fully expecting to have to avert his eyes from the couch, or really any space Sherlock is currently occupying. He’s prepared, because he remembers this, one of his roommate’s many quirks.

John turns the key in the lock, grocery bags rumbling in his hands. He opens the door and calls out with his eyes closed.

“Sherlock?”

He steps inside, closing the door behind him but not daring to open his eyes, lest he wish for them to be permanently scarred.

“John? John, what are you doing there with your eyes closed? You look daft. Come now, it’s much too hot for any foolishness.” comes Sherlock’s lackadaisy voice.

John snorts, peeking through his eyelids just enough to see the shape of the furniture and Sherlock’s unruly hair. He moves through the room, into the kitchen where he knows his eyes will be spared to set down the groceries. As he pulls them out and place them into the fridge (ignoring the latest addition of several purpled arms) he talks.

“Right, open my eyes so I can be blinded with your pale arse? Not on your life.”

“My pale- what? John, whatever are you imagining?”

Sherlock sounds almost confused but John isn’t falling for it. Smirking, he makes his way back into the living room, fully expecting Sherlock to be splayed out, naked as the day he was born, on their less than pristine couch. Instead, he finds Sherlock, in a black linen shirt and a pair of slacks that John is sure must be killing him, if the beads of sweat are any indication.

He’s kind of worried. He’s never known Sherlock for having any kind of decency and he doubts two years away in foreign countries was enough to change that.

“Sherlock, are you alright?”

Sherlock acts like turning his head is the highest form of torture imaginable and turns to pin John with his ‘You’re being stupid. No, you’re actually being more idiotic than usual.’ look.

“What the bloody hell are you on about?” the genius grumbles.

John fumbles for an answer. “Well, usually, on a day such as this I bloody near have to blind myself from getting a glimpse at your unmentionables.”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow before collapsing back on the couch like the drama queen he was meant to be.

“Why John,” he drawls out, “It almost seems like you were _hoping_ to catch a glance at my... _unmentionables._.”

John splutters, face turning red and that’s enough for today. He makes himself a cup of tea and let’s it drop, retreating to his room.

* * *

 

But it hasn’t truly dropped. John has an eye for this now. The Doctor curiosity in him is taking over, and he documents more signs of _something_ from Sherlock, more signs of different.

Sherlock changes in the bathroom now. Before, he’d strut out, towel less, naked, and comment airily about air drying being good for the skin.

He’s never shirtless, never less than torso fully covered and legs clothed.

Sherlock starts screaming at night and John doesn’t know why. And when the man wakes up he acts as if nothing happened, as if he wasn’t plagued by nightmares that made _Sherlock Holmes scream._

He notices more and more things. A hypervigilance unlike before, a stiffness in Sherlock’s shoulders that he never let’s down, not even around John, and a tendency to blow more often than not.

At first John is just curious, but now, he’s worried.

He wonders what Sherlock is hiding, why he’s _different_ in ways two years shouldn’t have made him.

However, he let’s it go, doesn’t let Sherlock suddenly developing modesty mess with their relationship.

Until, it does.

It starts out with a high speed, on foot chase, with Sherlock leading the way with those absurdly and offensively long legs of his that allow him to bound over fences and gates in pursuit of the escaping killer.

John loses sight of him for one second, _one second_ , he rounds the corner too late, and finds Sherlock laid out on the concrete gasping. The killer is above him, with a blood glinting knife ready to stab again. He doesn’t really know what happens after that. He’s blinded a bit, vision turning red ( _high adrenaline, emotional distress)_ the next thing he knows he has the killer’s face pressed into the concrete and is slowly suffocating him with a knee to the throat when Sherlock grabs his shoulder.

He looks pale and haggard but unbelievably firm as he makes John let up on the killer, makes John step back while Sherlock ties him up for Lestrade to find.

John is breathing hard and there’s blood on his knuckles and a kind of wild look in his eye. Everything blurs together for a second. His brain doesn’t come back online until they’re halfway up the stairs to Baker’s street and Sherlock is gasping to breath, clutching the railing with white fingers. Then, John comes back.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock!” He exclaims, rushing to shoulder one of Sherlock’s arms and help him up. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I might have,” Sherlock gasps, “Sustained a minor stab wound to the abdomen. Nothing vital was hit but it has made movement a bit difficult.”

“A bit difficult! A bit, bloody difficult.”

John drags him into 221B and lays him on the couch, finally noticing the blooming red on Sherlock’s shirt.

“Hang on a bit, I’ll patch you up.”

John makes for his emergency kit, for days like this when Sherlock is being an unforgivable _arse_ about his wounds, and kneels in front of the couch. He takes out a pair of surgery scissors and starts to snip at Sherlock’s shirt when a pale hand frantically shoves him away.

“No,” Sherlock gasps curling into himself, “I’m fine. Go away.”

“Sherlock, you arse, let me help!” John makes for the shirt again.

“ _No!_ ” Sherlock shoves him away, knocking him into the coffee table.

John huffs like a mad bull, determined.

“Sherlock!” he snarls, he reaches for the bottom of Sherlock’s button down and doesn’t let himself be shaken.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock! Will. You. Be. Still!”

But Sherlock is writhing on the couch, trying to struggle out of John’s hold with a desperation that almost makes John give in. But his friend is hurt, bleeding out, and he can’t afford to be soft right now. So he buries his feelings and holds Sherlock down with one hand while he rips open the soaked shirt.

He recognizes the bloody gash immediately, his doctor brain analyzes it as a non fatal stab wound immediately. A couple of stitches and some disinfectant and Sherlock should be fine.

That’s not what stops him cold.

What stops him cold are the scars. Criss crossed, thick scars, that rake down Sherlock’s chest in heavy raised lines, still red and aching. John is frozen, his heart beating out of his chest. His eyes flicker up to Sherlock’s who looks up at him with something like calm resignation at the man straddling his waist.

John doesn’t know what to do, how to feel, it’s like a bucket of ice has doused his veins, has them pumping fear and dread rather than warm blood.

He reaches out and lightly touches one of the scars slashing across Sherlock’s chest.

Christ, they look like…

_Christ._

They look like whip marks.

“John.” Sherlock says quietly.

But he isn’t listening, he’s too busy tracing one of the raised lines around Sherlock’s back where _fuck_ there’s a whole nother valley of scars, raking down his back.

John’s breaths hitch.

He’d bet everything he owns the same lines of scars are running down Sherlock’s thighs and up his arms.

“John.”

John presses his hand to the middle of Sherlock’s chest where the thickest band of scars are. They’re not just whip marks, John can make out taser scars, and spiked knuckles and many other categories of wounds he can’t describe right now. And it’s just. He’s trying very hard not to cry right now.

“ _John.”_ Sherlock prompts him, sounding panicked.

“Christ,” John chokes out, “Fucking Christ, Sherlock.”

He takes a moment to breath, to shove down the tears and emotions building up in him.

“Fucking _Christ_ . Is this what you’ve been hiding from me? Wh-where did you _get_ these Sherlock? _Who did this to you?_ ”

Sherlock winces cause John has that dark look in his eyes that says if only Sherlock would give a name, John would go out and burn the _world_ , start wars and finish them all in the same breath.

He doesn’t. Instead, Sherlock smirks weakly.

“I told you I went traveling. Not everyone was hospitable.”

John laughs but it’s a hollow, bitter sound and he looks at Sherlock for a moment longer like he isn’t sure whether he wants to cry or beat the shit out of Sherlock and _whoever had marred his best friend. Whoever had laid their hands on his Sherlock and left_ marks _. Whoever had thought they could get away with this._

He looks like he’s about to do it and Sherlock holds his breath. He looks like he’s about to climb off the couch, shrug on his jacket and go _hunting._

But then, Sherlock squirms and then winces as it irritates his wound and John is suddenly back, the Doctor in him more powerful than the killer.

For now.

He takes a moment to press his hand against the knotted center of Sherlock’s chest.

“Christ, Sherlock.” he chokes out. “ _Fucking Christ.”_

And then John takes a deep breath and gets to work.


End file.
